


Exceeds Expectations

by Anonymous



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Adventure & Romance, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Romance, F/F, Family Issues, Goblins, House Elves, Light Angst, Road Trips, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-24
Updated: 2020-06-14
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:01:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24354013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Pansy receives a letter from Blinky, a house elf, who curses her to die within thirteen days unless she can find the healing jewel that her father stole from him or have someone cry true tears of love for her.Believing she'll never achieve the second, Pansy recruits the help of Hermione, and they work together to find the jewel, return it to Blinky and break the curse.An adventure/romance Pansmione fic.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Pansy Parkinson
Comments: 20
Kudos: 63
Collections: Anonymous Fics





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have written a bit in advance and will try to update every 1-2 weeks. I hope you enjoy! Any feedback/constructive criticism is most welcome.

The sun is glaring bright and radiates with it a choking heat onto all innocent bystanders of the beach. Pansy, being one of them, is squinting, using her hand as an attempt to protect her eyes from the sun’s effulgence, and only allowing a tiny sliver of a gap between her fingers to see as – to her own disappointment – she lacked the foresight to bring sunglasses.

She groans in discomfort as the squelching heat enwraps her like an uncomfortably warm blanket, trying to find a suitable locating on the burning yellow expanse. When she finally does, she lazily drops her towel, bag and umbrella onto the ground, letting them clutter. Pansy curses as she hurriedly sets up her spot, already paranoid about her extremely sun prone skin.

It is only once she has set herself up under her massive, wide brimmed, polka dot patterned umbrella, relieved to be out of the sun’s reach, does she allow herself to forgive her past oversight. She may have failed to bring eye protection, but she has still succeeded in protecting her skin.

Pansy grimaces at the thought of what would’ve happened if she had forgot her umbrella. In reality, she doesn’t have to think hard at all. She is very familiar with what would’ve happened. She has had one too many experiences with painfully blistered red skin to be sensible. Her past self neglected skin protection out of youthful ignorance. But Pansy isn’t going to allow that any longer. While the burn and pain could be reduced by magic instantly, she wants to preserve her skin. And wilfully allowing it to be roasted out of negligence is just stupid. Magic couldn’t cure idiocy.

Pansy wiggles her butt trying to find a comfortable spot. Satisfied, she begins applying her sunscreen. It’s a very extensive and intricate procedure. She has to take many precautions to avoid burning and lathering herself up with at least four layers of sunscreen is one of them. She wouldn’t dare traverse the admittedly short distance to the ocean but it’s better to be safe than sorry. The words ‘ _Patience is a virtue, Pansy. Impatience is a deadly sin and only augments more pain’_ ring into her ears. She can thank her mother for that. Her countless lectures have created an annoyingly permanent imprint in her brain.

She rubs the sunscreen into her skin vigorously but systematically with the intention of getting it done as quick as possible. Her speedy application falters, however, as she struggles to reach a tricky spot on her back. She’s not going to take the risk and not bother with it at all, she has played with _that_ fire one too many times. So she wriggles and contorts her arm in the most painful manner, angling it as high as possible to reach the bothersome spot. She continues her plight until eventually, many pained and unrefined minutes later, she gives up, pouting and glaring at the ocean.

Her rather intense staring contest with the indifferent waves is cut off by the arrival of an incredibly amused boy named Blaise.

“Whatcha up to, Pansy?” He pauses, looking down at her. “You look… shinier than usual.”

Pansy raises her head and shoots a glare at the infuriatingly carefree boy. The bastard who, she notes with annoyance, isn’t even wearing a shirt. _Of course. Blaise doesn’t have time to waste on something as_ useless _as skin protection_ , she thinks bitterly, because it’s true. The boy doesn’t have a single fear about exposing himself to the sun. And his grin as he stares down at Pansy shows he knows it. His gorgeous yet aggravating dark skin is more than competent enough to withstand any amount of radiation. A fact of which Pansy is extremely envious of. 

“You know it’s the sunscreen, Blaise.”

He plops himself down beside her, taking his time he languidly lies down on his back, his elbows poking out as his hands support his head. “Oh? I thought perhaps you were trying out some new skin product. You always do know how to pick the worst possible ones.” He flashes a wicked grin at her.

“Fuck off,” she says. And resists the urge to grin back.

Pansy has never been sure as to when exactly their relationship morphed into… this. A mutual back and forth teasing with no real venom involved. It definitely hasn’t always been this way. In fact, they bloody hated each other first year and onwards.

The Slytherin prefects had a hard time stopping them from killing each other. The two were completely motivated to hurt each other as much as possible. Emotionally and physically. They did so many horrible things to each other. Too many to count. But off the top of her head she can think of a few.

Pansy spread rumours about Blaise having a small dick in third grade ruining his chances with a pretty Ravenclaw in first grade so he Evanescoe’d her skirt in the middle of charms class. Poor Professor Flitwick, she can still picture his red face as he ushered her out the class and to the nurse’s office – squeaking all the while – to this day.

Blaise poisoned Pansy’s orange juice with a sneezing potion on an exam day causing her to almost fail Defence Against the Dark Arts in third year so she retaliated by Confundo’ing him as he walked down the hall, causing him to trip and fall in a hilariously inelegant manner, in which his pants somehow managed to fall down with him. Despite him cutting her hair in revenge later, Pansy still thought the look on his face as he fell was worth it.

They continued that back and forth for ages. Pansy even let it affect her grades as she spent hours plotting the next best way to destroy Blaise. She hopes he did too. What an embarrassment if he didn’t.

Then Blaise outed Pansy’s less than heterosexual status to the whole school. After that she had to deal with being a called many offensive synonyms of the word ‘dyke’ for ages. But it wasn’t like she could deny it. It was true. She really got him back hard for that. In fact, she almost put him in the hospital wing. She was so angry and upset that she cursed him in the halls causing his throat to constrict. He was already on the floor, gasping harshly from breath when Professor McGonagall reached the scene and took the curse off him.

That happened between fifth and sixth year. The ferocious scolding the two of them got after that incident gave them a great amount of respect for Professor McGonagall. None of them could say she was a weak character, she made sure of that. They endured many months of detention with a disgustingly pleased Mr. Filch. Even worse, they were forced to apologise.

And maybe it was because of genuine guilt of having almost killed Blaise or the two-hundred-point loss to Slytherin if she didn’t, but Pansy did it. She apologised. And Blaise apologised back for exposing the worst possible thing he could about her.

While eventful, this incident didn’t cause an immediate 180-turn in their relationship. They still hated each other. But they didn’t outwardly try to harm each other either. They simply ignored each other.

But as time went on their animosity turned into hesitant appreciation and respect. And as Pansy started taking note on how oddly intelligent and subtly kind Blaise was – catching him helping crying first years with their potions essays in dusty abandoned classrooms, and casually sending tripping jinx’s to patronizing seventh years who picked on first years – she found she didn’t mind it. She found she actually liked Blaise.

Eventually their bickering and cruel attempts to ruin each other’s lives was beyond them. Pansy began scouting out information about Blaise’s next romantic conquest, aiding him in getting her into his bed. And Blaise– Well. He didn’t tell everyone when he caught her sobbing in a broom closet after her mother’s death.

After that particular incident they just kept hanging out with each other. Pansy always ended up on Blaise’s bed in the boy’s dorm to the bemusement of the other Slytherin boys. They studied together, having to shake each other awake when they frequently tired. They went to Hogsmeade together, gorging on candies and splurging on clothes.

They never outwardly mentioned it, but they were friends.

When school ended, however, she fell out of touch with many Slytherins. All of them in fact. Including Blaise at the time. They didn’t want to much associate with the girl who publicly declared that Harry Potter should be handed over to Voldemort. Admittedly, she wouldn’t either.

She couldn’t blame their Slytherin self-preservation in staying away from her. She went through a rather – to put it lightly – _transformational_ period after the war. That’s what she liked to call it. Otherwise it would be regarded as a depressive slump in which she was shunned from wizarding society and was forced to live with muggles. Blaise was the one to save her from that, when he returned to her. And he’s the one person she has left. Pansy is grateful for their friendship. Though she’d rather die than admit it out loud.

Pansy continues to stare at the hypnotically rhythmic waves until Blaise grabs her attention with a nudge on the shoulder.

“You need help?” He gestures to the bottle of sunscreen which is laying abandoned on the sand beside her.

Without hesitation she nods. Only a little desperate. She’d be rolling around for another hour if she had to apply it herself. She’d rather Blaise have a one up on her than lose her dignity all together in front of him.

She sighs as he massages her back, his hands smooth and strong, relaxing into his gentle but firm administration. In her daze she vaguely thinks that whoever Blaise ends up marrying is exceedingly lucky: They’ll have a lifetime of amazing back massages. She’s just about nodding off when he says, a bit too loudly, he’s finished.

“Done?” She confirms.

“Done.” And then he grins with his obscenely white teeth again and Pansy decides it’s time to get moving. She yanks him up by the arm, only a little bit roughly, and they race together to the water. Sprinting hard, Blaise makes it first, and he yells in triumph. Pansy curses then splashes him with the freezing cold water, laughing with satisfaction at his girlish shriek.

Before he can retaliate and splash her back, she dives into the water, allowing her body to get used to the cold. It’s not long before they’ve both adjusted to the temperature and they can really enjoy the cool relief the water brings them. Pansy looks back sympathetically to the poor folk on the beach who have not made the wise decision to enter the water. She notes, however, that many have used their common sense and yells from children and adults alike can be heard in the water. 

The summer has been particularly horrific this year. And not wanting to withstand it in England, which is miserably bland and boring, they booked a small place to the south of Spain. Only for the long weekend, they still had work to do. Cadiz, their selected province, is a small but welcoming island. And Pansy is happy with their choice. It is a muggle residence of course – in the past she’d have been surprised to know she dropped the rather boorish term ‘mudblood’ but that’s what happens when one stops surrounding themselves with strict and rather cultish pureblood ideology – and Pansy has become to prefer it.

The town quaintly bustles with life, the central square and beaches, in particular, being quite animated. From a single glance, Pansy and Blaise made the unanimous decision to avoid The Centre – ‘El Centro’ as the locals liked to call it – as they preferred to avoid dense crowds; El Centro is comprised of windy narrow paths made up of smooth rocks which makes everything in it feel packed and claustrophobic.

The shops are filled to the brim with Spanish paraphernalia, muggle tourists from all sorts of places stuff themselves into cafes and restaurants and rudely insult the waiters for not understanding English, and Spaniards with makeshift stores on the streets haggle you at every corner once its established you don’t speak a lick of Spanish. It makes one feel like they’re being suffocated. A bit too much it is.

So Pansy and Blaise are forced to stick to the beaches, which they are all too happy to oblige.

Due to Cadiz being an island it provides a sufficiently enjoyable amount of beach which is why, she acknowledges, it was chosen as their destination.

Pansy has always had a fondness for beaches. As a young girl, her mother would take her every summer. They are warm memories, full of sticky hands holding dripping ice cream, sore eyes from opening them in the salty water and sandcastles which in hindsight were pathetically small and crying into her mother’s arms from pain from sunburn. Pansy misses all of it. Even the sunburn. But it is a universal phenomenon to yearn for the past.

Pansy reprimands herself for reminiscing about the beach. It’s rather foolish to do it now, considering she’s currently at one _._

So Pansy swims, splashes Blaise, dodges incoming surfers, and it’s all right and good. She’s so happy even, that it doesn’t bother her much when a child starts screaming, it’s in its mothers’ arms of cause but it finds no comfort there, _that’s_ how she knows she in a good mood, when annoying children can’t even dampen it.

Eventually though, the water starts getting chilly again and the waves become bothersome instead of challenging so they exit the water– skin pruned and eyes stinging from the salt – and back to their makeshift spot, dripping wet, but feeling much more refreshed and content, despite the continually glaring sun.

With the knowledge she will be able endure the heat, at least until she dried again, Pansy grabs a book, whacks her head onto Blaise’s stomach, and begins reading, content. All in a very ladylike manner, of course. Blaise, who stares down at her with his eyebrow raised might have a different say on the manner, but his opinion is irrelevant.

Thoughts drifting from the lines in the book, she ponders on the fact that they probably look like the picture-perfect couple. Attractive, happy, and obvious chemistry if she may say so herself. She snorts internally.

They have a perfectly platonic relationship, she and Blaise. She can’t completely account for Blaise on the matter, however, he’s smart. He knows Pansy is a raging homosexual and has no interest in any manly body part, no matter how enthusiastically some like to flaunt it off to her.

Pansy loves women, and the idea of seeing or _interacting_ with any man’s parts is a disturbing image. Pansy is very gay. That is a clear fact if one were to look at her choice in pornography. She is gay. And it makes sure nothing amiss happened between them. 

Her book consists of a rather interesting love story between a fairy and a centaur, and she is enthralled. Romance has always been her favourite genres.

By the time Pansy has read through half of it and they have gone in and out of the beach several times, she starts to bore. They have been by the seaside since just before noon, and now the sun is peeking out over horizon, consuming the sky with darkness.

Pansy has to admit, while the sun really was indecently hot at its peak, it does have its moments. As it sinks lower and lower, it projects a beautiful array of colours over the water, bathing the sky with pinks, yellows and oranges that almost make dealing with the threat of burning worth it.

It’s beautiful. And the sight makes her antsy to move.

She snaps her book closed with a sigh. Looking at Blaise she knows there is no way she’ll be able to extract him away any time soon, let alone convince him to come with her. His eyes are closed, chest gently raising and falling, as though asleep. She calls his name anyway.

“Blaise?”

“Hm?” he says, sleepily.

“I’m taking a stroll. I’ll be back soon, so don’t worry about me too much,” she says, kissing his forehead.

He simply hums in affirmation. But his eyes remain closed, so she sets off.

She decides to leave her flip flops at their spot, letting her feet contact the sand. She enjoys the feeling, the soft crunch and texture making a pleasant sensation on her soles and toes.

Despite it being rather late, there are still plentiful people around. They’re scattered sparsely along the sand, and as Pansy walks past them she hears the rapid fast conversations of enthusiastic Spaniards. She doesn’t understand a word. But she likes the sound of it.

The idea of walking without having a clear destination in mind has always appealed to Pansy. After school ended, she was barraged with threats and comments about how she should’ve been given over to Voldemort – that she should be trialled at Wizengamot. It even made it to the papers. But they didn’t have the means to do so. She had the right of free speech, and there were too many other people to trial – death eaters, werewolves, and many others – they couldn’t spend energy on her.

So she received no consequence from the ministry for her words. That angered many people. So much so that Pansy decided to leave the wizarding community for a little while. Just in case.

She didn’t have much place to go. Her mother was dead, her father was off with another woman, and all her school friends had abandoned her.

So she converted the monthly galleons her father gave her to keep her at a distance into the strange muggle currency called pounds and completely blindly entered ‘mudblood’ society– as she named it at the time. She could’ve gone overseas of course. But she didn’t speak any foreign languages and staying within Europe was ideal. That was how the ‘transformational’ period.

But travelling has always remained a pleasant endeavour to Pansy, even if it’s rare she can satisfy it.

If she had the choice she would just walk and walk and walk and keep walking until she ends up… she doesn’t know where. But it seems rather peaceful and pleasant.

Pansy is just about to turn back, noticing in surprise that the sunset is almost no longer, it’s almost dark – she didn’t even notice, she was so lost in thought – when she notices a strangely familiar figure in the distance.

The figure – a girl, lies face down on a lavender purple towel. She’s wearing scant clothing – a simple navy – blue bikini top and bottom. It really should not have caught Pansy’s attention, it isn’t unusual or especially shocking for a girl to wear a sparse amount of clothing, they were at a European beach after all. Pansy is wearing a bikini herself. One could even say the girl is rather prude to not be wearing a thong or be topless as is customary for some Europeans.

Again, this girl should not have been of any importance. Pansy would not have noticed her at all, in fact, but that bushy hair is undeniably distinct. And as Pansy walks closer, pace slow, eying the girl carefully, she confirms the insane idea.

Its Hermione Granger.

Pansy’s brain short circuits for a moment, as many thoughts flood her at once. For one, Pansy has never thought or even played with the idea of Hermione Granger and a bikini together as being a possibility. The image of her lying now, so comfortable to show her skin, is so vastly different from the Granger she sees day to day.

Unfortunately, Pansy and Granger have been working alongside each other for a couple of years now at the Ministry of Magic. More specifically, the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures.

More fortunately, however, they don’t have to talk much. Their department is surprisingly large, consisting of an array of boxy offices, slapped on top of each other, that had about as much organisation a Gryffindor dorm room – she’s presuming.

But Pansy is sent to deliver the odd folder here there, (“Blaise, you do realise I’m not your personal owl? Just because Veronica broke up with you again last night doesn’t mean you don’t have the capacity to walk, you know?) and sometimes the Hermione’s office is one of those places.

The rare times she sees the bushy haired girl with what Pansy’s sure is yet another Elf rights related legislation, they barely say more than a word to each other. It’s an unpleasantly strained exchange, but Pansy supposes that’s inevitable. What with Pansy teasing the girl for years and wanting her best friend dead in the war. That’s besides the point, however.

The Granger she sees is strictly professional. She always has been. At school, even at Hogsmeade she would not show even a hint of cleavage. And the Granger at work is all pant suits and witch’s robes and modest blouses. So what is she doing here with only a bikini? It doesn’t compute in Pansy’s preconceived beliefs of Granger.

Pansy realises she must look rather stupid, standing only ten metres away from the girl, mouth slightly ajar. She snaps it shut already knowing she has disappointed her mother in her lack of etiquette.

Pansy scolds herself inwardly. You’re a respectable age of twenty-three, you shouldn’t be goggling at pretty girls like some horny teenage boy.

Oh, Pansy just called Hermione Granger pretty. She supposes she has always known that… deep down, but now she lacks the desire of thinking about.

Pansy’s quite lucky that the girl is such an insanely avid reader because that’s the only reason she hasn’t been caught dead in embarrassment yet. 

She’s completely invested in her book, biting her lip as her eyes dart across the page at impressive speed. Some things haven’t changed after all, Pansy thinks. Her hands turn the page with an efficient flick of her fingers. And the movement is so eerily normal and familiar that it shocks Pansy out of her weird trance. Hermione wearing a bikini may be foreign territory, but Hermione with a book isn’t.

Now that Pansy doesn’t feel like she’s been hit with a Confundus Charm, the world appearing balanced and orderly again, she decides that she’d much rather approach Granger herself than be caught standing there lamely, or worse, fleeing the scene – there’s a lot of beach and one can see quiet far ahead, so Pansy doesn’t like her chances with that.

And so Pansy draws from her, admittedly small, amount of courage and approaches the girl.

It’s evident from Granger’s lack of response, despite Pansy being less than a gnome’s length away from her, that she is completely engrossed from her story. Pansy sighs internally realising she’ll have to act again; she’s hoped that her presence would be enough to break Granger from her reading vigour.

Pansy has the time to notice the book is monochrome blue and lacks an image. It’s detailed with gold lining and then Pansy notices the title – it shouldn’t be surprising that the girl still continues to read boring History books, but it is.

Not knowing the introduction suitable for the situation, Pansy just sticks to an oldy but a goody, for consistency’s sake. “Granger.”

The girl’s head jolts up, so sharply Pansy worries for her neck. “Parkinson?” her eyebrows furrow, and Pansy takes pleasure in the at the rather undignified drop of her jaw. “What are you doing here?”

“The same as you, I assume. Enjoying a fairly pleasant day at the beach.” She pauses. “That _is_ what you’re doing?”

Granger rolls her eyes at Pansy’s arched brow and closes her book. She’s now sat on her towel, still nearly as naked as before, but not nearly as comfortable about it. “Of course that’s what I’m doing. But what about you?” she narrows her eyes, suspicious. “You’re not following me, are you?”

That shocks a high laugh out of Pansy. “What in Merlin’s name would I do that for? I hadn’t realised you were so self-centred, Granger. Don’t you believe it possible I could be here out of my own enjoyment?” She knows she sounds overly defensive but she can’t stop herself.

“Well of course I do,” Hermione snaps. “But this isn’t the most appropriate place for someone like you to be. And don’t think I haven’t noticed you’ve failed to answer my question.”

Pansy’s eyebrow raises without permission. The girl certainly hasn’t lost any of her scrupulousness. She’s as attentive as ever.

“Well, if you insist a more adequate response. _No,_ I am _not_ following you, Granger. Our meeting here is only due to a series of unfortunate events, whereby a _person like me,”_ she enunciates, mimicking Grander, ‘is trying to enjoy a day at the beach and have amicable conversation with a co–worker. So to speak.”

Surprisingly, Granger’s mouth quirks upwards slightly. “I didn’t picture you the type to enjoy muggle literature, Parkinson.”

“Whatever do you mean?” Pansy had read a few muggle novels before. She had no other choice when she was stuck within muggle London of which the only books available were by muggle authors. Rather unfortunately all the bookstores missed a wizard section. But Pansy doesn’t understand where that question came from. Pansy didn’t mention anything to do with muggles. She feels her eyebrow raising in confusion.

“Oh” Granger’s cheeks grow a light rosy shade, which Pansy could almost describe as endearing. “I thought with A Series of– oh never mind…”

Quiet consumes them for a couple of uncomfortably awkward moments and Pansy is becoming oh so aware of how strange it is she’s still standing, looking down at Granger, who’s the one to eventually break the silent spell.

“I didn’t mean to accuse you of anything, Parkinson.” Granger eyes Pansy from below. “It was ridiculously presuming of me to assume you had nefarious intent being here. It has caught my attention that you’re not nearly as _combative_ as in the past, and I know you wouldn’t do anything to harm anyone. At least not intentionally.”

‘Glad you see it, Granger.” And decides it’s time to plop herself onto the sound beside her, despite the girl’s slight begrudging expression. Instinct makes Pansy want to make a joke about being here to harm muggles but considering Granger is still eyeing her with slight suspicion she decides it wouldn’t be the wisest idea. It isn’t funny anyway.

“Pretty big coincidence isn’t it?” Granger says, “both of us choosing the same place and time for holiday?”

“Sure is,” Pansy replies, knowing Granger is trying to insinuate something. She isn’t going to give her any leeway to convince herself that Pansy is here for anything other than a holiday. Which is the truth.

So they were sat together on the sand, only centimetres apart. The silence growing larger, weighing on them uncomfortably. Pansy doesn’t know why she thought their conversations would be a little more stimulating, but she supposes she should be happy with what she can get. Their acquaintanceship at work did little more than lessen the animosity between them, it didn’t trigger any fondness nor any particular friendliness.

Pansy tries to think of how to continue the conversation and goes for satiating her curiosity. It is always the best tactic when one is experiencing a lull in conversation. It is entertaining. And the more controversial the question, the better.

“So…” Pansy begins, “Why isn’t Weasley with you?” Not the most elegant introduction of the topic, but it does the job.

Hermione sighed. “Can we leave Ron out of this?”

“Oh? Trouble in paradise?”

“It’s none of your business,” she says.

“I did find it rather curious why you were here alone. In school the Weasel was always by your side, like an annoying bug or pest. Presumed you’d still be together. Perhaps that is in the past.”

“Ron’s not a pest!” Granger says but doesn’t rebuke their change in relationship status. “You barely know him!”

“I know… it was just an observation.”

“Well, stop observing.”

The girl looks irritated now so Pansy decides to change tactics.

“Nice look you got going, Granger,” she says. “Just a little advice though, you know, woman to woman” Pansy leans in to whisper in her ear, their shoulders lightly nudging together as she does so. “You probably should’ve got a size larger.”

That makes Hermione flush bright red. Pansy had lied of course, the size is perfectly fine but she likes the idea of Granger thinking she is showing too much boob. Pansy is even more amused by the response.

“What?” Granger says, flushing, whipping an arm around her chest unhelpfully, “I thought– the lady at the store told me– I had no idea– is it bad?” She’s looking down at herself, obviously trying to see how exposed she is.

Pansy watched her for a second before laughing. “I’m sorry, I was teasing you. It’s fine. There’s nothing wrong with the size.” Granger’s face loses some of its tenseness in her relief, and Pansy continues. “It looks quite good actually.” Pansy isn’t lying now. The girl certainly looks gorgeous. She only laments on the fact she never saw it before.

“Oh.” Granger breathes, then her face transforms into something terse and she hits Pansy lightly on the arm. The movement seems to shock Granger for a moment, as if the movement were completely out of her control because she stares at where they made contact. But she snaps out of it quickly. “I was worried. I’ve never– I’ve never worn one before… but I think I like it.”

Pansy brightens. “You should. It suits you.”

“Yeah? Well, that’s good.” Granger looks slightly pleased, and Pansy thinks the girl might want to say something else, but her mouth remains shut.

Pansy decides to take her leave then, it’s night now and Blaise will definitely be wondering where she is. Standing up and wiping the sand off the back of her thighs, she says “Well, I’ll let you go now, Granger. Hope I didn’t leave you with too much trauma.”

The girl stared hard but replies, “You didn’t. I’ll see you around, Parkinson.”

Pansy nods and turns around smiling and looking forward to something – what? She doesn’t know.


	2. Chapter 2

“I’m sorry to say I don’t believe you, darling,” says Blaise after Pansy has recounted the story with gripping enthusiasm.

The sun has gone now, replacing it a bright moon a litany of stars. Yet they are still lying on the beach. Given, they wear more clothes than a simple bikini and swim shorts. Instead, they have a blanket over them as they stared at the night sky. It’s still warm, however. Strange when one is surrounded by darkness. That’s the Spanish summer for you.

“It’s true.”

He then smirks at her. “That must have been quite hard on you.”

Pansy doesn’t like where this is going but she keeps her face neutral. “Why would that be?”

His smirk grows. “You’ve always had a thing for smart girls.”

“Shut it, Blaise.” But she flushes slightly. Because it is true. Pansy is admittedly not the most academically gifted, but that doesn’t stop her from appreciating those who are. The smirk on Blaise’s lips bring back flashbacks of him teasing her for the massive infatuation she had for a Ravenclaw in sixth year. It was horrible and Pansy doesn’t want it to happen again. It brought Blaise too much joy. He doesn’t deserve it. And Pansy certainly doesn’t deserve his brutal pestering.

“Not a chance.” Blaise says, not letting the topic go. “Granger is looking quite good these days, isn’t she? Even with the prude button up clothing she wears. I can imagine how devastating she’d be without them. Of course, I won’t touch her. She’s all yours Pansy.” He backtracks when he sees the ever–increasing rage in Pansy’s eyes.

She hits him across the chest anyway. “Yes, she’s good looking but she’s still _Granger._ ”

“We’re not children anymore, Pansy, it’s time to leave those school grudges behind us.”

“I know, but while I might be into ‘smart girls’ as you say,” hitting him with a glare, “she’s still very much straight.”

“You did say something happened between her and Weasley, no?”

“Yes, but that could be for any reason. What are the chances that she suddenly had an epiphany about her sexuality?” One could dream. But Pansy’s had way too many crushes on straight girls not to be wary.

“I don’t know… it’s a possibility “Blaise assures her. “I mean, there’s still hope for me yet. I’m open to anything. I could be bi.”

Pansy snorts. “Yeah right.” Blaise is as straight as anything.

He pokes at her a little more, attempting to draw more humiliating information out of her but Pansy stays silent so eventually he bores, and he stops mentioning Granger. Pansy is glad.

She doesn’t know exactly how she feels about her. Images of the girl, so exposed and showing so much skin, seems to be burned into her eye sockets. She can’t stop seeing it. It’s rather annoying, especially when it interferes with her appreciating other girls. 

They spend the rest of their holiday at the beach, dreading Tuesday when the long weekend is over. Pansy eventually does burn, and skin pink and cursing, Blaise laughs at her. But what they do not see again is Granger. Pansy supposes she left, not wanting to see her evil Slytherin self. It is a sure thing, she thinks.

Their meeting here didn’t affect anything. It didn’t matter. And as she repeats this over and over, a surprisingly disappointing feeling lurches in her gut. It’s a gnawing feeling, and even when she ignores it, it remains. But Pansy has gotten used to enduring feeling uncomfortable. She had to when she lived in her creaky, leaking apartment in the slums of muggle London, wherein she had nothing but the clothes on her back and the screaming of her neighbours to enjoy every night. Disappointment like this is nothing.

They’ll go back to work and ignore each other like they did before, Pansy supposes. She shouldn’t expect anything else. They barely even spoke at the beach; all she did was make Granger uncomfortable.

Right. She’ll ignore Granger. That’s the best idea.

*

When Pansy returns to the monotony of work – wishing she could return to Spain – she does follow through with her rather flawed plan to avoid Granger. Well, as much as possible. They still pass each other sometimes in the halls, Pansy determinedly looking ahead, but she can always feel Granger’s penetrating gaze on her. It’s distracting. So distracting that after every encounter, no matter how small has Pansy thinking about it for hours after.

So Pansy completely throws herself into her work. It’s not the worst thing in the world. Pansy really does like her job. Her teenage self would have spitted on her in disgust if she knew she ended up working in Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, but she knew she’d get over it. Pansy already had.

The work is more hands on than Pansy ever imagined. She works in the Spirit section of the department, which means that she focuses on the maintenance of anything not under the subsection of Beings or Beasts. It mainly includes ghosts, banshees, dementors and such. Pansy’s specific job is in purging or removing these creatures from people’s homes, by either convincing them or by force.

At first, when Blaise came to her after not seeing each other for two years, Pansy had raised her nose in disgust. _How dare he come in here to ‘save’ me as if he’s pitying me?_ She thought. _There’s nothing wrong with how I am_. He was in her apartment with a job offer, and Pansy was having none of it, cursing at him like they were at school again. But as he gazed around the apartment, eyeing the trash and the leaky roof, eyes sad, Pansy silenced as she felt a rush of humiliation. He looked so sad for her and that had really pissed her off. But it was also enough anger to push aside her pride and take the job he was offering. She was going to show him that she wasn’t something to be pitied. And so he apparated her out and that was how she started her job.

Originally, she hated it. Hopkinson, the past head of the department wanted to retire, and she had to push down every sarcastic remark as he slowly showed her the ins and outs of the work. She had hated it because it seemed like nothing more than a rarefied cleaning job. It was horribly demoralising. Who would want to go into cramped, dusty, and dark old rooms every day? To do what? Vanquish a ghost? The job was horrible, but anything was better than staying in that apartment, so she stayed.

And eventually she learnt how to purge a ghost, a complicated process in which she must sympathise with the soul, and unfortunately trick it into leaving in which she stuffs it into a sealed bag. She learnt the most effective ways to trap poltergeists, the funniest ways to stop Boggarts, and how to tell which ghosts were to be freed or purged. At first, Pansy had let many escape and zoom around chaotically – Hopkinson tsk’ing in the background – but now she could capture them with ease. The only problem was after – when she had to purge a ghost for good. It was quite tiring. She had to hold them down. Lock them in her arms long enough for them to ‘leave’ so to speak. But they all eventually went.

She didn’t have to deal with dementors much. But Boggarts were a nuisance. For a long time, she had to call for aid whenever one was at a house, for she couldn’t get over the sight of her dead mother. But eventually she grew used to watching her, dead eyes and all, turn into a plushie doll. turn into a plushie doll. 

Eventually Hopkinson retired, leaving her on her own.

It was tiring business at first. She had to go into tight dusty spaces and such. But it was nice listening to ghosts, to their stories and reassuring them all would be okay. The had so many stories, and so many couldn’t share them. They wanted to leave but they couldn’t. And Pansy helped them do it. They were the easiest to deal with – they went in the sealed bag without complaint. Eventually she even grew fond of it all – it helped imagining herself in some sort of crime film, something she had picked up on in the muggle world.

But now all she wants is to get her mind off Granger. Off her brown eyes, her long hair, and her wit.

Pansy is standing outside the gate of a rather small house; the house of her next client. Over the Floo Network, the lady Mrs Knope had described hearing a disturbing banging in the inside of her closet and requested the help of Pansy’s services. Knocking on the door the lady greets her with cookies and immediately brings Pansy into the room where a large oak wardrobe is standing, hastily atop it an assortment of hats and scarves. The lady leaves her to work and Pansy is barely into setting safety charms around the wardrobe to check if it’s something more dangerous than the average boggart, when Mrs Knope returns, holding a letter in her hand.

“Darling, I received this letter from a rather disgruntled looking owl. It’s addressed to you.”

Not having expected a letter, Pansy furrows her eyebrows in confusion. Nonetheless she takes the green stamped envelope.

‘I’ll leave you to it,” says Mrs Knope walking out the door.

Looking at the letter more closely Pansy is suddenly hit with a wave of dread. A knot has formed in her stomach that only threatens to grow and consume her. She recognises the writing. The scribbly calligraphy reflects a darker time. One where Pansy is stuck in a moulding apartment and struggling to get though each day. One where her father’s crimes made it impossible to feel safe and sound.

It can’t mean anything good, receiving the letter. But Pansy can’t ignore it. Hands shaking, she opens the envelope, ripping it unrulily and messily at the seams. Taking the letter out, Pansy eyes it wildly, the letter being rather short. It said:

_Dear Ms. Parkinson._

_The last time we made correspondence you ignored my pleas._

_So I shall ignore yours._

_You will have thirteen days from now to live unless you satisfy the terms._

Pansy drops the letter, her instincts telling her that touching it is not safe. But it’s still readable form where it has been dropped face up on the ground, and Pansy can’t help but continue to scan it, hoping it isn’t too late.

_Unfortunately for you, the curse was made binding from the moment you touched the parchment of this here letter._

Pansy closes her eyes for a moment and breathes, trying to remain calm. Her suspicions were right. She is so stupid. After several deep breaths she continues reading _._

_You must either return what was stolen from me or make someone mourn genuine tears of love for you. I’m sure both of these will be impossible for you to meet._

_I’ll enjoy visiting your funeral in thirteen day's time._

_Goodbye._

_Sincerely,_

_Blimpy_

Shakily, Pansy picks up the letter again. She’s already been cursed; the letter can’t do it again. Her fate was signed. Making sure there is nothing else of importance in the letter she apparates from the cottage– she would apologise and compensate Mrs Knope later.

For now, she just needs to get away.

She finds herself in a forest, more specifically a park, one where her mother used to take her. It was the first place she could think of.

Pansy can’t help but collapse on the ground, her limbs shaky and unstable. Luckily, there is only a few waddling ducks to watch her tiny meltdown. Trembling, she rereads the letter over and over again as if reading it one last time will make the words change somehow, make it not true.

She’s mourning Pansy realises. Mourning her own death. Because she doesn’t know how she’s going to do it. Thirteen days to live. She only has thirteen days to live?

Pansy takes note of a burning on her chest and she quickly unbuttons her shirt. There, is a black circle, about an inch wide. She realises it must be a part of the curse. And suddenly the simple shape looks disgusting to Pansy. It’s a mark of her death.

And she then thinks back to the letter.

_Take back what was stolen from me._

Pansy knows exactly what Blimpy is talking about. In the year she was living with muggles. She started receiving an odd letter every now and again, in reference to her father. Pansy’s father is a sleazy old man, always has been. And he uses whatever means necessary, including his losing his dignity, to get his way. No matter is too unnecessary or immoral, as long as he desires it, he will get it. By stealing for it, torturing for it, even killing for it.

Torture and murder are no longer things her father takes part in – she hopes. That was mainly in the war. His crimes were frequent, and he somehow got away with all of it. He wasn’t one of Voldemort’s death eaters but he used the chaos of the war to do horrible things.

One of his misdeeds was the jewel he stole from Blimpy. Her father was particularly good at stealing and the Blimpy was only a house elf. A house elf detached from any wizarding family; his original having died in the war. Blimpy was the perfect target, really. Who would care if someone stole from a house elf? Who would defend him? And more importantly, who would ever believe him? Especially when it was her father, a Parkinson, a pureblood family, which he was accusing. It would never stand in court. Her father would always win.

The letters started off as quietly professional, simply asking for the jewel back. In the first one, Pansy discovered that the jewel – The Ruby – had powerful healing powers. Powers which could only heal elves. Blimpy’s daughter Blinky was sick and used the stone to maintain her health and keep her from worsening. But now without the energy from the jewel, the elf Blinky was suffering and could no longer do daily activities. She was constantly exhausted. Could barely leave her bed. That was what the letter entailed.

Pansy did inquire to her father about it at the time, wondering why she was receiving those letters, but it turned out he was also receiving them, only he didn’t care. And he didn’t want to hear from her either. When she had floo’d him, she had grimaced at the sight of a disgusting lipstick mark on his cheek and his ruffled clothes. She could barely get through the conversation, he kept going on about how he was so sorry, but it was out of his hands, and then he had left the room while she was in midsentence. He had no interest in what she had to say. She wouldn’t get more from him.

So she left it.

But as the months went by the letters got more desperate. More urgent. And Pansy once again went to her father. He laughed at her, and Pansy shouldn’t have insulted him when he did because he told her to fuck off. He told her she’d never find it, and neither would Blimpy.

She received one letter after that. Then no more. It didn’t seem angry. The writing was neater than the other ones, less rushed, as if it had accepted something.

Pansy had always hoped that the girl recovered miraculously somehow. Or died. She did know there were other ways to cure it. Spattergroit was a horrible disease, and for elves… their bodies can’t handle it.

But that was the last Pansy heard from him.

Now she has received another letter. Indignation rises through Pansy. She can understand if her dad was cursed, he bloody deserved it, but Pansy? What did she do wrong? She knows she should have tried harder, convince her dad or even steal The Ruby back herself. But that wasn’t her responsibility. Her dad was not her responsibility. She curses loudly scaring the ducks near her, waddling away in fright. Her dad has always made Pansy’s life hell. Now is not any different.

A hate blooms inside of Pansy, and she feels the urge to explode something. A hatred for her father for fucking up everything good in her life, and a hatred for Blimpy for blaming her, for cursing _her_ while her father leaves scot free.

Pansy feels her blood boiling, so much so that she allows one quick surveillance of the area before setting the nearest tree on fire. Then another. And then another.

After five trees are lit, the burning leaves twinkle down around her like some hellish rain. Feeling satisfied, she uses Aguamenti to extinguish the flames, and then she cries some more.

She has never lost control of herself like this before. She has gotten mad, sure. But she has never destroyed something, set trees on fire. Everything feels so out of control and she shakes as she tries to compose herself.

Pansy doesn’t know what to do.

She is alone in this. Who could she turn too? Not her fucking mother, she is dead. Even more impossible is her father, who would laugh at her face again and tell her to fuck off as he molested another poor unsuspecting woman who thought he was still rich.

Pansy doesn’t want to tell Blaise. He would give up everything to help her, and she could not do that to him. Not when he’s just had a promotion. He’s now the assistant for the minister of magic, it is something he’s been building towards for years. Surpassing all expectations that he was a good for nothing that only uses his looks to gain power, he showed that he had worth in other ways. He worked and worked. Even despite all the garish remarks and insults. He made it. And now that required all his time and energy.

Pansy doesn’t know much about House Elves. She knows the basics; she is a pureblood after all. She had one when she was younger. She was a small and awkward creature, Zilty. And it was through her that Pansy learnt that house elves are loyal and humble creatures and most importantly hard working. They don’t usually disobey wizards or outwardly hurt them. But when they are independent, free of a master they’re known to be unruly. Obviously, Blimpy was unruly enough to curse her.

Lying in the grass, Pansy realises that she has to do something or else she’ll light another tree on fire, so she picks herself up and apparates straight to her father’s house. She doesn’t bother knocking. If she did, her father would tell her to fuck off. No, she must enter directly in or else there’s no way she’ll be able to talk to him. A couple of years ago, her father made the decision to spell the wards to keep her out, but his magic was never very strong. Plus, Pansy’s magic is familiar enough that they let her pass through without much trouble.

So Pansy finds herself on a ghastly marron carpet, a fireplace is on her left with pale yellow tiles and a mahogany desk littered with papers is in front of her. She has apparated into the study.

She surveys the room for her father and at seeing no one she approaches the door. She’s familiar with the house. It’s the one she grew up in after all. But it now feels cold, and unrecognisable. It has none of the warmth that was there before, none of the fun. The halls which used to be filled with greenery and plant life – it was a hobby of her mother’s, tending to plants – is boringly empty.

Without the green décor, it is lifeless, and Pansy hates it. She hates everything in it, now that her mother is gone. And she especially hates her father who she finds in his bedroom, splayed out on the sheets of his bed – which is messy of course, as if it hasn’t been made for weeks.

He looks at her with wide eyes and with a gaping mouth, it would be enough to make her smirk but Pansy’s just relieved that there’s not a naked woman in here. Her father had a history of fucking multiple women, it was why her parents had divorced.

“Pansy? Wha– What are you doing in here?” He splutters.

Pansy looks at him in disgust. He has always been so ungracious. The sight of him makes her sick. Especially since he now has basically sent her to her death. And he has the right to look shocked? Pathetic.

Her father’s surprise morphs into anger as he untangles himself from his sheets, moves off the bed and lowers his feet off the ground. Before he can do anything, however, Pansy speaks. “I received a letter, father.”

He pauses his movements and quirks his eyebrow. Pansy could almost describe it as interested if she knew it wasn’t fake. “That’s nice. But what has that got to do with me?” He approaches her suddenly, and Pansy takes a step away from him. “Look, darling, I sent you the check just last week, so I’d appreciate it if you just left me alo–”

“It’s from Blimpy” Pansy snaps and that shuts him up.

He’s silent for a moment.

But then almost expectedly, Pansy doesn’t seem fear or regret in his eyes, all she sees is humour, his eyes are blazing with it, then he laughs. “That old geezer, what does he want? I already told him he’s not getting the jewel back; thought he took the hint last time, but I guess not.”

Last time? Pansy didn’t tell father about the last letter so what does he mean?

“What did you do to him?”

He looks at Pansy sharply. “What’s with that accusing tone? I didn’t _do_ anything to him, I just gave him… a _manipulated_ version of the truth.”

That is a very Slytherin way to say he is lying; Pansy is well acquainted with that.

“Tell me.”

Her father laughs again. “You’re very demanding today. You know that? You barge into my house with no warning, and now you’re not even requesting– you’re _ordering_ me to tell you something.” He sighs. “I thought your mother and I taught you better.”

“Don’t mention mother.” Any mention of her on her father’s lips sends a jolt of fury through Pansy. He has no right. But he knows that already.

“And there it is again!” he starts tutting, shaking his head like he’s reprimanding a small child. “I think you ought to go now, Pansy.”

“But you haven’t told me anything!” she shouts.

“Alright then,” something akin to pride filling the lines of his face. “I told him where the jewel was, I just failed to give him the right location.”

“That’s a very roundabout way to say you lied to him, father.”

The idea of him lying to the elf makes Pansy want to throttle him. House elves are very trusting creatures, even when they knew a wizard meant harm– sometimes they would just trust that everything would work out in the end. And her father took advantage of that nature, cruelly abused it. Pansy has not always been the kindest to magical creatures, she knows that. But she knows better now.

To lie to an elf who is desperate to find a cure for his dying daughter’s illness. That was plain evil. It would have been better to say nothing than sending Blimpy on a fool’s errand, leaving him desperately hoping to no avail.

“Yes.” Father simply answers. _What a prick,_ Pansy thinks.

“Well, where is it now?” Pansy says.

“That’s none of your business.” 

Her father is approaching her again. Taking, slow, steady steps. He is a large man. About a head and a bit taller than Pansy and about that size more around his tummy too. But Pansy recognises this tactic. She watched him use it on many others when she was younger, intimidating and overpowering his enemies with a simple dominance in size, scaring them away. Pansy is disgusted by the thought she used to be in awe of that. In awe of him. It seems revolting now.

Pansy steps forward, unperturbed by his size over her and before he can react– hoping that surprise will be enough of an advantage– she jumps and uses all the force of her body to grab his hair and push him onto the floor. Before he can get back up, she is holding him down with her body weight and she has a wand at his head.

“You’re going to tell me father, or I’m going to wipe all your memories to date. And you’ll be a vegetable forever.”

The bastard starts laughing uncontrollably. It lasts minutes, long minutes wherein Pansy questions his sanity. He’s giggling lightly when he finally speaks, “You’re going to regret this so much, Pans. You’ll be in Azkaban for a long _long_ time.”

“Salazar Slytherin, shut the fuck up father! I have a wand at your head!”

“I know you won’t do it Pansy, you’re too much of a coward.” Even with his face crushed roughly on the floor, he still has the nerve to look smug.

Pansy wonders whether she should even bother mentioning her imminent death. Mention that being put in Azkaban won’t even matter if she’ll die in thirteen days anyway. She wonders if the fact that if he doesn’t help her now, he’s leading her to her doom, and if that would affect him the slightest bit.

She does contemplate it for a few moments, but she doesn’t do it. Because her father would probably just laugh and use it as leverage and get in the way somehow. The thought of her death brings a strange strength to her voice, fuelling a fire within her that aids her in saying her next words confidently.

“Oh but I would father, because I have nothing to lose.” She digs the wand harder into his head, making sure it hurts.

He starts snarling on the floor, attempting to flip them over so Pansy sends a binding hex, which wraps his body in tight, strong and invisible ropes. It doesn’t stop him from talking though. “You have _everything_ to lose.”

Sitting on top of him, Pansy feels a calming sense of power. “Maybe” She says, “But so do you.”

Pansy pauses for a moment. “You have your little mistress, don’t you? The newest one is the wife of a certain auror I heard.” Pansy smirks when she feels her father’s body freeze at her words. “You really wouldn’t want him to find out what you’ve been doing, would you? I mean, I simply wouldn’t be able to help myself, I have quite a loose tongue you know.” She leans in to whisper in his ear. “It’s good for the ladies.”

She added that part in just to enrage him more, he never approved of her sexual preferences. And his useless thrashing proves it.

“You wouldn’t fucking dare,” he says.

“Don’t you get it father? I would and I will. _”_ She stands up, sick at the thought of being so close to him for even a moment longer and kicks him in the stomach. His groan is rather satisfying. “And if you don’t tell me how to find the jewel _right now._ I’m going to the Auror Robinson right now and telling him you’re fucking his wife. I know his flat number, did you know? Blaise had lunch with him the other day. But before I tell him I think I’ll obliviate your fucking brains out, so you won’t even remember a thing when he destroys you.”

“Pansy, I–”

“Don’t.” She doesn’t want any of his diversionary tactics. Any sudden professions of supressed familial love. Any guilt trips. She doesn’t want any of it.

“I–“ he starts again and she kicks him hard.

“Okay! Okay! Pans, geez.” He’s groaning now, each breath he takes is harsh and she waits until he can speak again. “I don’t know where it is now,” Pansy feels like bursting, but she lets him continue. “But I do know where I sent it originally. I sent it to Peterson’s pawn shop, you know– in Knockturn alley, where we used to go to visit Nott. Anyways– _that’s_ where you need to go, I have no idea where it went from there. If you’re lucky it’ll still be there.”

Pansy raises her foot again and feels satisfied with her father’s flinch at the action. “You’re sure that’s all?”

He nods as hard as he can while still lying on the floor. “Very sure, Pans.”

She believes him. He is too much of a coward to lie now. She knows her father.

“Very well then. I better get going.”

“Are you–“ he splutters, “are you not going to untie me?”

“Sure, father.” She directs her wand toward him but instead of spelling him free, she whispers _obliviate_ and her father’s memories of the last hour are gone. She knows there would be no way of getting away with essentially torturing her father unless she obliviated him. He’s too vengeful– she could see revenge plots already being formulated in his beady little eyes even while tied up– and Pansy doesn’t fancy going to Azkaban. His eyes are closed now. No longer full of hate. And Pansy despises how peaceful he looks unconscious. He doesn’t deserve peace.

But she takes the binding spell off him which frees his arms and legs which were bound knowing he would be suspicious when he woke up if she didn’t.

Before Pansy apparates out, she looks at her father, who is now lying on his bed from where she has moved him – which took a lot of effort is she may add, he was a very fat man– and says, “Good bye.”

There’s no emotion in her voice as she says it. It’s not some tearful farewell. But she just wants to say it. Because this may be the last time she ever sees him, and it would feel wrong if she didn’t, like she would be missing out on something.

Then she apparates out, the dark room swirling from her vision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I posted this a bit earlier than I intended to but I hope you guys enjoyed the second chapter! Feedback/constructive criticism is most welcome :)


	3. Chapter 3

Pansy finds herself outside Peterson’s Pawn emporium.

It’s a discreet little place. The sign doesn’t jut out from the building like the others. Instead, the splattering of faded letters on the shop’s window is the only evidence displaying she’s found the right place. It’s dark out, and Pansy wonders whether the store is even open. She supposes it wouldn’t be. Who in the name of Merlin would keep their shop open past midnight?

She’s shaking her head to herself and about to apparate away when she sees something from the corner of her eye. Just below the lettering is an even smaller sign, emerald green, with the word ‘open’. The window is tiny and juts out slightly from the red brick surrounding it. But it’s so layered with dirt and mud that Pansy has to press her face right up to it to see what’s in there.

Vaguely she notices-only successful due to a small glow from within the store–the shape of wooden shelves stocked up with an assortment of trinkets and potions. All very clumsy and unorganised.

Sighing, and resigned to the fact she’s going to have to inhale a fair bit of dust–given that her speculation revealed that the window was not the only object neglected of a good cleaning– she steps toward the entrance.

As she pushes her way through the door, a little bell jingles, and a small man with a large blonde moustache )quite a glorious one, really, it reaches the buckle of his green belt) and an equally blonde mop of hair appears in front of her. He seems a bit frazzled, his eyes wide, and he’s got ink splattered all over his robes.

“Won’t be a moment, sorry!” And he swirls off muttering loudly, starting to reorganise the shelves for no apparent reason than for his own sanity. “Keep yourself together, man! You have a customer!”

Pansy eyes the little man in surprise at his wild outburst. But watching him become increasingly frantic in his muttering as he moves his hands along the shelves, she finds herself pitying the tiny, off-his-rocker man. He mustn’t get a lot of customers, she thinks, to be open at such a tardy hour.

She also notes, given from the split ink jar on the birch desk nestled between the shelves, customers must be so lacking he had a bit of a fright at her presence.

She hears him muttering for several more minutes and she uses the time to survey the shelves more closely. They are layered by a transparent blanket of sorts, a shield charm, she recognises, probably riddled with protection charms to ward off shoplifters.

It’s only when she approaches the animal pelts hanging off the walls and subsequently getting a whiff of the rotting flesh smell that radiates from them, that Pansy has to pinch her nose in disgust.

She’s questioning whether she should leave–if only for the lack of hygiene and horrid smell, let alone the time she’s been waiting-when the man, presumably Peterson pipes up.

“Hello! How may I help you!”

He comes up to her shoulders which is an achievement considering Pansy’s not exactly gifted in height either. His short stature makes her wonder if he’s completely human–is he a sort of dwarf? Realising she’s letting her contemplation take over her main objective, she shakes her head and asks, “Are you Mr Peterson?”

“Yes, that is I!” he says enthusiastically.

“The Ruby,” she says, immediately cutting to the chase. “The jewel which has incredible healing powers for elves. You have it, don’t you?”

Peterson’s eyes widen in shock for a moment before squinting at her. “No, we do not. We haven’t had it for some time, in fact.”

That is an annoying piece of information. “May I please know where they are now?”

“Information comes with a price, my dear customer.” Peterson’s eyeing her with a wicked gleam in his eyes and sneaky quirked lips and Pansy has to wonder if he is half elf.

But she proceeds to withdraw her from her a couple of galleons anyway–the only money she has on her– and although its not much, the man’s eyes shine at the sight of them. “Is this a sufficient amount?” Pansy asks.

She would usually try to find some other means of extracting the information, but she’s drained from tying up and obliviating her father. This is the easiest route to getting what she wants.

“Certainly!” His fingers wiggle with anticipation and the little man almost whoops with glee when she hands over the gold coins. “Yes, this is quite sufficient, indeed. Indeed!”

“Well then, where is the jewel?” she says, amusement being replaced with severity.

Peterson sniffs then, his previous excitement suppressed slightly, “They took it from me.”

“Who?”

“The Ministry.” He sniffs again. “About one month ago! They said it was illegal property and that it belonged to them. The Goblins. The bank. Which, I suppose, it does–the jewel was in fact crafted by a goblin–but they had no right to take it! No right at all! I told them! Yes I did! But they took it from me anyway, and I couldn’t do anything about it. They had paperwork.” He sniffles weakly now. “That jewel was worth me a good thousand galleons, that did. I barely had it for a week! I had offers lined up for it and everything.”

Pansy absorbs the information in disgust. The man was right. Goblins themselves have no right to take it from him, a ministry official should have come. That is procedure. And no goblin works in the ministry like that. Inter-species relations haven’t evolved that far.

“Did you get their names? How many were there?”

“No, they wouldn’t give their names to me. I suppose they didn’t want me to report them. I think I scared them off a bit. I gave them a good scolding on their way out, I did.” He sounded proud, the duffer, didn’t he know he couldn’t intimidate a fly? “And there were five, I believe, maybe six. They were a mean looking lot, not one smile, not one! Even when they got the jewel, their expressions looked more like grimaces!”

“What did they look like?”

“They looked very goblin like. Nothing out of the ordinary or note-worthy I’m afraid.”

That is not useful at all. “Well, thank you, sir. Is there anything else you think might be relevant?”

“Hmm. I don’t think so– wait! There may be something.” He is organising his shelves again with renewed vigour as he speaks to her. “One of them, I don’t know who, but one of them was wearing the thickest gold ring I’ve ever seen. It had inscriptions on it I’ve never seen before. And I’m quite well read if I say so myself–I think that ring was very rare indeed, very rare. I have no clue where on earth he got it from. That would probably be a good way in identifying him.”

That information seems about as good as she’ll get from the man. “Thank you then, that’s all?”

Peterson pauses and rounds back up to Pansy with eager eyes. “Well yes, but don’t you want to pawn anything? Or buy something perhaps?”

“That won’t be necessary, I’ll be off now.” She makes her way for the door.

“Are you sure? We have a wide selec– “

Pansy doesn’t get the opportunity to hear the end of what, she is sure, would’ve been a riveting sales pitch, for she apparates.

In her flat, she flops onto the closest chair and stares up at the ceiling–it’s a pleasant sight, nothing like the leaky one from her past muggle experience. As she stares up, she feels a weight in her bones, bearing down on her like she has been doing heavy lifting all day. But she hasn’t, unless having dread and a life threat looming over her counted.

Having enough of the chair, she apparates herself into her bed. With her newfound information, she supposes she should do more looking, more investigating–try to find out who exactly these goblins are. But that may be a difficult task.

Goblins in general are a cunning lot. It’s hard to find out much about them as they stick to their own kind. Refusing to let foreigners in. Pansy realises they’re much like Slytherins in that aspect and she snorts about how that loyalty and ambition is biting her in the ass now.

Pansy wonders what her next step should be. The obvious answer would be research. But how would she do that? She doesn’t have the time to spend wasting on things like textbooks and the sort. What textbook would help her find a group of goblins? Especially thieving ones? Maybe they’d have information on past groups but not current ones, or they wouldn’t still be running their criminal business.

She realises she could go to the ministry somehow. Report the curse put upon her. But what would that do? Knowing law enforcement’s general opinion of her, they’d probably tell her to right fuck off. Not outwardly, of course, but in the form of a polite letter stating their sincerest apologies but unfortunately they do not have the capacity to help one bit. She could see it clearly. Ministry staff barely coped with simply walking past her on her way to her office

It would be an ever more useless endeavour considering her father robbed the damn thing in the first place. Plus her actions in Hogwarts–which is something that people will never let her forget. Not that she wants to.

She thinks to the people she can turn to. Who can she trust? Blaise yes. At the first hint that she’s dying he’d be here to help her in an instant. But she’d rather that be a last-minute thing.

He’s doing well at the ministry. Maybe if she only has an hour left, she’ll tell him. It may be selfish, but she wants to say goodbye at the very least, even if he kills her first for not telling him sooner. She can’t do it to him though, tell him. He has his whole life ahead of him and if she stops him now he’ll be fired or demoted–and that can’t happen not when he’s worked so hard and given Pansy everything she has now.

It would cause him unnecessary harm and heartbreak. He couldn’t break the curse. Even if he cried for her, the tears can only be of romantic love. House elves are known romanticists, generally, they form their magic on the power of true love and happy endings. Blaise loves her, but not like that.

No, she has to find someone else. Who knows about goblins? And who could possibly care enough to aid her in this?

The answer is obvious. She thought of it from the very moment Mr Peterson mentioned the involvement of goblins. But Pansy doesn’t like it.

Granger. The girl is the head of the Goblins sector of The Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. If anyone were to know of a miscellaneous rebel goblin group, it would be her.

Pansy’s mind wanders off to the time in Cadiz. For a moment there she thought they could be friends or at least amicable acquaintances. Maybe she could help her? Probably not. Pansy knows what she did in her past. How horrible they were. And she knows how loyal Granger is to her friends. Pansy hurt Harry. Granger won’t forgive her for that.

Despite the darkness, a small stream of moonlight enters the room and Pansy looks down at the circular mark on her chest. There’s a tiny slice cut out of the circle now–as if someone on a diet asked for the slimmest piece of cake possible–she supposes the black indicates her time left. How convenient, she thinks. He gave her the curse but at least Blimpy went through the trouble to let her know how much closer to death she is.

The reminder that she’s going to die hits her and she snuggles herself as close as she can to her pillow, trying to imagine that someone’s telling her she’ll be okay. If she imagines her mother’s touch that’s okay too.

*

After much contemplation, Pansy ends up researching goblins in textbooks anyway. There’s nothing she can do at the moment, not until she has a lead. She can’t exactly go around asking if anyone’s seen a group of mean goblins–not when she doesn’t even know what they look like or what their names are. The books have been of no help so far, but she thinks trying to figure out what that golden ring is could be helpful.

But the day goes by and Pansy ends up spending the entirety of it cooped up in her house, achieving absolutely nothing. By the time she’s gotten through the dozen books she brought from the open wizarding library the sun is gone and dark consumes the room in which she’s slumped in her flower print armchair.

That confirms it then, Pansy thinks, she’s not going to find out anything useful by normal means of research. The only thing she learnt throughout the whole process was that Goblins are incredibly self-centred bastards and have an incredible ambition and lust for treasure. That and they have a disliking for wearing socks for some odd reason, but all that is trivial.

Pansy’s stomach twists with something akin to dread. She knows she should go to an expert. And the closest to that is Granger. She supposes she could go to the streets and ask around, but the thought of entering the dark alleyways of Knockturn Alley and approaching people who are sure to be dangerous–or even worse have terrible hygiene–is not appealing in the slightest. She grimaces at the thought of even attempting it.

She must ask Granger. Or else she’ll have another repeat of today and achieve absolutely nothing. She’s already wasted one day. She only has twelve left. Twelve is not nearly enough, but she doesn’t have a choice. She has to ask Granger. She has to. She repeats that like a mantra as exhaustion consumes her.

Pansy ends up falling asleep in her floral armchair, surrounded by books and parchment and wakes to the sound of a door shutting.

She jolts awake and widens her eyes, surveying the room for a possible threat. And she finds one. Fucking Blaise. He has a grin on his face like he always does and looks terribly pleased to have had the privilege of waking her up.

“Good morning, Princess.”

It’s morning?

“How did you get through my wards again, Blaise?”

“They love me,” he says, simply. “And they know I’m not a threat.”

She curses at her apartment’s apparent lack of respect for her wishes. She knows that Blaise won’t do her any real harm, but she’d like a bit of warning and not just be surprise attacked by his barging in.

“Of fucking course.”

He makes himself comfortable on the sofa in front of her and Pansy takes the time to wipe her mouth for any drool and pat down her hair. It’s only Blaise, but she always wants to look somewhat presentable. Some manners were instilled in her after years of pureblood training. Her father would be so proud. Ha.

“So why’d you miss work yesterday, Pansy?”

Oh. Work. Right. That did slip Pansy’s mind. She hasn’t exactly been worrying about it, too preoccupied by the fact she might die soon. That rather dark possibility is all that’s been occupying her thoughts of late. She supposes she ought to have thought of it due to Granger’s involvement but researching took priority.

Blaise continues. “Your client, Mrs Knope, was awfully worried about you. She said she left you for only a moment and then you were gone. Leaving her still with a boggart in her closet. Why did you leave Pansy?”

Merlin, Pansy really ought to have prepared for this. Of course, Blaise would figure out something was wrong, considering he is technically her boss. She obviously can’t tell him the truth. She has to think of something sensible. She wouldn’t leave work for no reason at all. And although she hates it, there is only one solution.

Lying to Blaise is not ideal. In the past it was a given, but now they hardly ever do. At least Pansy doesn’t–not about important things. So she scrambles for a reasonable response as elegantly as possible. 

“My…” She pauses, “My father called.”

That provokes an eye raise from him.

“And what did dear Phineas want?

“He– he wanted to gloat.” She figures its believable enough, her father was a right ass after all, he’d do almost anything to get under Pansy’s skin. She continues summoning as much rage into her voice as possible, “about his new girlfriend. She’s barely legal Blaise–younger than me.”

He wrinkles his nose in disgust and Pansy feels both guilty and relieved that her fake story was believable.

“Don’t let him get to you, Pansy.” His voice is so concerned and earnest, and it makes Pansy feel more guilty. “You know he’s just trying to mess with you.”

“Yes… I know.” She says. “I’m sorry I left in the middle of work. It’s not in good taste. I just received the letter and I went running to him.” That isn’t technically a lie.

Blaise’s eyes just turn more sympathetic and Pansy hates herself. “It’s okay Pansy. You’ve missed– what–five days in the past two years? I think you’re doing plenty fine. Its going to take more than that for me to get rid of you.”

Pansy nods and Blaise must find it satisfying enough because the worried lines around his mouth disappear into a wide smirk again.

“So watcha been up to, anyway? And why do you have so many books around? You want to impress a certain someone?” His voice is teasing and he wiggles his eyebrows up and down.

Pansy rolls her eyes. He’s been insinuating that there’s something between her and Granger since the time at the beach. She hasn’t even mentioned the damn girl at all, but he keeps bringing her up. It’s almost driving her insane.

“No, Blaise. I just got a bit caught up in trying to–” She gets cut off by an amused sound from him.

He has a hold of one of the books and he’s flicking his eyes back and forth from the title to Pansy and back, with a massive smirk on his lips all the while.

Salazar, Pansy had forgotten that all the books are titled with multiple variations of ‘goblin’ history, the mind of ‘goblins’, anything to do with goblins.

Pansy knows where Blaise’s mind is going. He thinks that she’s learning about Goblins to get closer to Granger. Although she hates it, she’d rather him think that than know the truth, so she says nothing.

“Pansy, Pansy, Pansy.” He’s outright giggling, “I knew you liked the girl, but I didn’t know you were this gone for her. I’ve never seen you voluntarily studying for something other than school or work in your life.”

“I’m not gone for her,” Pansy says, going along with it.

“What an interesting development. Huh, it’s almost like I’ve been right all along.” Pansy is glad that her story came off as somewhat believable, but the knowing grin plastered on Blaise’s face makes her slightly regret it.

“Maybe so.” Not wanting to spur him on too much.

“As happy as I am, and as prepared as I am to completely interrogate you about this later. You, darling, should be at work.”

Pansy doesn’t want to go yet; she still wants to see if she can figure out a lead on her own before she faces work and possibly Granger. The ring is a definite lead, if only she can find out what exactly it is. So she coughs lightly, “I’m sick.”

Blaise is not impressed. “Yeah, and I’m a squib. Now, get your ass off the couch and get ready. There are five locations lined up for today and you haven’t started on a single one. We’ve already had a few howlers coming in, you know? And you know how much they scare the magical creatures.”

She holds herself back from ranting about that; they need a better system for keeping creatures out of the way–even if it is their department’s purpose.

“I’ll be ready in twenty, okay?”

“Alright, but if I don’t see you in your office in thirty minutes, I’m pulling you out of here myself.”

He apparates out before Pansy can even roll her eyes.

She decides she might as well try to initiate the plan to convince Granger today, in fact, its probably a good thing Blaise came or else she would’ve been uselessly moping around trying to find clues on her own. 

Groaning as she extracts herself from the comfy chair, a bit disturbed at the amount of cracking she hears from her limbs, she prepares herself for the day ahead.

*

She makes it to her office, showered and dressed appropriately, in just under twenty-eight minutes. Just to piss Blaise off. It leaves enough time to spare so he doesn’t barge into her flat again, but she’s taken long enough that he’ll be paranoid wondering where the hell she is. 

Pansy can imagine him eyeing her office like a hawk and looking through her office door window. Her suspicions are confirmed, when she sees him looking at her with an annoyed scowl. But before she can send him a wink, he walks away.

Pansy’s amusement only lasts a few glorious moments because, to her great disappointment, she spots the pile of new cases that she must get through as well as an even bigger stack of paperwork and memos. Her muscles and brain ache just looking at it. This is what she gets, she supposes, for taking one day off even if she is dying. Taking a few calming breaths, she reaches and starts on the first pile.

*

Having returned from finally removing the boggart from Mrs Knope’s flat (and being stuffed with too many biscuits), exterminating a pesky poltergeist from a day-care centre, and convincing a poor ghost with the soul of a dog named Barney to stop barking, Pansy is finally done with her outside jobs.

She’s relieved but as she wearily eyes the pile of paperwork, she knows she still has ample more work to do. But she has something more important to do first.

Leaving her office and making her way down to Hermione’s sector, Pansy feels her heart thumping lightly. She doesn’t know why she’s so nervous. Flashes of Granger’s exposed skin come to mind but she shakes her head. That’s not relevant. She wishes her apparent lust for Granger were the most of her problems, but unfortunately, she has an impeding death date to preoccupy herself with.

She finally enters Granger’s office and is met with a bombardment of papers flying everywhere. They’re allocating themselves within shelves and folders and Granger stands in the middle of the whole debacle, skilfully flicking them about with her wand and muttering to herself as she reads a book in her hands. She’s always so busy, Pansy thinks. She doesn’t think she’s seen Granger take a break once except to talk to co-workers.

Granger’s hair is large and voluminous as usual, but Pansy can’t help but notice that it is shinier than it normally is. She looks quite nice. Her robes–still a set of normal work ones– fit her nicely and Pansy wonders how she never took note of it before, because she is sure that Granger would never try to show her figure. Although, thinking on it more, she may be wrong. If the time at the beach taught her anything Granger isn’t as oblivious to her body as Pansy once thought she was.

Granger, however, doesn’t seem to gauge any of Pansy’s inappropriate thoughts because, as usual, her tendency to completely consume herself in her reading has transferred itself to work. Pansy has to cough loudly to announce her presence.

Granger pauses her rather urgent wand flicks and the flurry of papers settles down, several swaying gently to the floor.

“Good afternoon, Parkinson. How may I help you.” Her expression isn’t lined with a single emotion. It is neutrality to its finest, only possible if one were doing it one purpose. Granger is being overly polite.

Pansy coughs lightly, nervous. “I have something… personal to ask of you.”

“Oh?” That grabs Granger’s attention, and she eyes Pansy with wary eyes. “What is that?

Pansy takes a deep breath. “I need your help in locating a rather devious rebel Goblin group. I don’t know much about them. But… this is of incredible importance to me. I would be forever grateful if you helped.”

Granger’s eyes flicker with interest–it’s really no wonder she was such good friends with Potter at school–she has an incessant fascination for mystery and adventure.

But almost as if she has just realised who she’s talking to, the glimmer quickly dampens.

“Why should I help you, Parkinson? I’m very busy, if you must know. And locating a rebel group is not exactly an easy task, especially if you have no information on them like you say and–“ she pauses, and Pansy feels like Granger’s eyes are boring into her. “This is all a bit strange. I mean, why on earth are you looking for them?”

Of course, Hermione Granger finds it necessary to ask a plethora of questions. It was inevitable and Pansy had prepared for this–had simulated the conversation in her mind–but being confronted with Granger face to face, her demeanour intimidating and confident, throws Pansy off a bit.

Granger is not the type of person to be convinced by menial ways. Money would be of no use, seducing would be even more hopeless, and begging would just make Pansy look pathetic. No, she must tell the truth. Granger's a Gryffindor after all. They are fanatics of staying truthful and genuine.

“I received an unpleasant letter only a few days ago. An elf from my past sent it. Anyways, they delivered to me an unfortunate gift, one that means I am to die within thirteen days. Twelve from today. That is, unless I find something. The Ruby. I’m sure you’ve read about it before but-” She pulls down her shirt slightly to reveal the circular mark on her skin, “This, this is proof if you need it.”

“Twelve days?” Granger’s expression is torn, she keeps gnawing on her lip, but her eyes are sympathetic, staring down at her mark intensely before flickering back to look at Pansy directly. “What has that got to do with me? How can I possibly help?”

“Well, I found out that what I need was taken by Goblins–the rebel group I mentioned. Only I have no way of finding out who, exactly, they are nor where they are. I realise that this is very little information to go off of but I would really appreciate it if you could–“

“I’ll help you.”

Pansy almost reels in shock. “Really?” she says before she can stop herself. She hadn’t realised it would be that easy or that fast to convince her– Maybe Granger was more selfless than Pansy had originally thought.

“Yes,” she pauses, in thought. “You’re not a bad person. And you don’t deserve to die.”

Pansy shivers at the words. Granger’s not bullshitting her. She is completely serious. The intense gleam in her eyes can’t lie. She’s going to help her.

“But why would you help me? What’s in it for you?”

She raises her hand up to her chin in contemplation. “Other than not thinking you deserve to die? Well, I’ve been looking for an excuse to get out of work for a while. This seems about as good of an excuse as any.”

Pansy doesn’t expect that. She’s always assumed Granger loved her work. She has no idea what could’ve happened to make her want to take a break from it. But she’s not going to probe further.

Instead, a wave of relief crashes through her, and with it a stream of optimism. Despite her arguably inevitable downfall, there’s now a shimmer of hope. Her hands are shaking slightly, and she realises she was a lot more nervous about Granger’s answer than she thought.

“Thank you so much, Granger.” Pansy says, allowing her gratitude to seep into her voice. “I am indebted to you.”

Granger’s brown eyes widen slightly, before glaring at her. “Parkinson, if we’re going to do this, I don’t want to discuss such things. At least, not until you’re free of the curse. You’re not indebted to me yet.”

Pansy would’ve jumped at the opportunity for someone to be indebted to her, but Granger isn’t like that. It is such a compassionate gesture; Pansy can’t completely understand it. She almost killed her best friend, after all. She doesn’t deserve it.

Instead of expressing these thoughts, Pansy says, “Right. Well, thank you for not just outright refusing me, Granger.”

“Call me Hermione.”

“What?”

“If I’m going to help you, I don’t want to be called Granger. It doesn’t sound right to me. It makes me feel like we’re in Hogwarts again. So call me Hermione.”

“Alright then…” she hesitates in saying it, “Hermione. Call me Pansy as well. Doesn’t seem fair if only one of us has the pleasure of hearing our proper name.”

“Sure. Pansy.” She smiles lightly then. It’s a nice sight. The curve of her pink lips brightens her face so much that Pansy feels almost blinded. But the smile disappears when Granger- no Hermione turns around. Merlin, the name calling thing is going to be hard to get used to if her chest is going to be fluttering like that every time. There is no denying that hearing her name on Hermione’s lips was a beautiful thing.

Pansy’s rather embarrassing train of thought is broken when Hermione spins around again, in her hands, a piece of paper. Upon it, neat lettering. 

“This is my address. It is under the Fidelius Charm so you need to keep this if you want to get in. I’ll make sure my wards won’t send you flying. So come this afternoon at six.”

Pansy gapes at the paper, but gawks further at the fact that Hermione is entrusting her with this. If her house is under Fidelius, surely Pansy is the exact type of person she wants to keep out. “Why would you give this to me?”

“You’re not the secret keeper, I am. You can’t tell anyone.” She shrugs, “And even if you could, your life is in my hands. I trust that you won’t hurt me.”

Pansy knows a warning when she hears one. She wasn’t planning on hurting Hermione but she certainly isn’t going to be doing so now.

“Alright. What will we be doing there anyway? I’m assuming it’s not for a cup of tea.”

A fierce glint appears in Hermione’s eyes.

“We’re going to find those damn goblins.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed the third chapter! I'm a few chapters ahead and I'm so excited to post it all :) Any feedback/constructive criticism is most welcome!


	4. Chapter 4

It isn’t a surprising fact, but due to the sheer quantity and size of her collection it really must be said: Hermione Granger owns a lot of books.

However, even that is an absolute understatement. As Pansy stares at the volumes upon the volumes of books that are stacked upon each other and seem to fill every tiny crevice of Hermione’s sitting room, it would be more appropriate to say she owns a library. Walking in, Pansy has the ominous feeling that one of the stacks (which stand several inches above her) would fall upon her and squash her dead. For they all appear to be on the verge of collapsing. Luckily, Hermione must’ve threw several sticking charms on them to ensure no one be injured in her own home, because they succeed in defying the laws of gravity. She can only assume that every other room is in the same state.

“This is certainly… predictable,” Pansy utters out once she gets over her initial surprise. She’s still standing in the door frame of the sitting room, while Hermione is comfortably sat on her leather couch.

“Maybe so,” Hermione says, voice steely.

When Pansy doesn’t leave her position at the door, Hermione rolls her eyes. “Come sit down already.” Pansy doesn’t remember quite so many eye rolls from the girl in their school days. But it’s better than glaring hatred, she supposes.

Accepting the invitation, she walks towards the couch, and Pansy is struck with the strangeness of the situation. She is in Hermione Granger’s home. If someone told her so in sixth year she would’ve laughed in their face. Now, she just feels out of place and her skin itches with slight discomfort. She doesn’t let it show though, and keeps her head high and back straight as she seats herself next to Hermione.

Hermione seems equally uncomfortable, chewing lightly on her bottom lip. A slight frown appearing once Pansy’s sat right next to her.

Silence envelops them for a moment. Pansy fiddles with her sleeve and Hermione doesn’t move an inch. That is until she suddenly rises. “Tea. Would you like some tea?” she asks.

Pansy raises her eyebrow slightly. She doesn’t really feel like tea, but Hermione seems to be attempting to create some kind amiability between them in the otherwise plain silence (something which Pansy wants too) so she accepts. “That would be lovely. Thank you.”

Hermione nods then strides out the room, her bushy hair swishing all the way.

Alone, Pansy takes note of the sitting room. It’s a small place. Small enough for one with claustrophobia to feel panicked in. Made worse by the hundreds (maybe even thousands) of books that occupy the space. Even the small walk from the door to the couch could be described more as an obstacle course. If she wasn’t careful, Pansy would’ve tripped and fallen flat on her face from one of the many stray books littered on the ground.

Other than the books, however, it is quite cosy. Pansy could see a lot of room from improvement she would change the ghastly maroon carpet to a nice blue. But she could see a lot of Granger in it. It is all so her, and Pansy is filled with a mixture of amusement and endearment.

Hermione eventually returns, carrying with her a tea pot and set of cups which she places on the coffee table. Once they’re both paired with a hot cup of tea Hermione speaks. “Tell me everything. Don’t leave anything out.”

She stares intently at Pansy as she explains her history with Blinky–how her father stole The Ruby from him and how she used to receive frequent letters from the elf. She explains how she went to her father and then to Mr Robinson’s but found nothing. She mentions the mysterious gold ring. And she specifically does not mention her act of arson during her breakdown in the muggle park.

When Pansy’s finally done talking, she stares down at her cup which she fidgets with in her hands. She is scared to look at Hermione. Scared that she’ll deny her, say that she is of no help. But she doesn’t need to worry.

“Pansy.” Her tone of voice causes Pansy to look up. Her brown eyes are blazing. “I think I know where the goblins are. And if they still have The Ruby, you will definitely be freed within the twelve remaining days you have left.”

That was better than anything Pansy could’ve hoped for. If she were alone, she would probably squeal in excitement. But she’s not. And she still has her doubts. “How can you be so sure?”

“I brought you to my home because I thought we could work together to find the goblins. Research more specifically. But from what you’ve told me, that’s not going to be necessary.” Hermione sets her cup down. “Because of that ring. It’s one of a kind if I’m interpreting what you’ve said correctly and it’s currently in possession of the leader of one notable rebel group. He’s named Glerk. From the latest intelligence the department received, he should be in Australia. It’ll be difficult and will require a bit of manoeuvring and problem-solving but I think we can find him.”

Pansy is speechless. She thought this whole ordeal would be a lot more tedious. But here is Hermione telling her this. Maybe she’ll break Blimpy’s curse after all. Although, there is one thing on her mind…

“Where in Australia? It’s not exactly a small country.” If Pansy’s memory serves her correctly, it is quite massive in fact.

“That’s the thing…” Hermione says, worry lining her face. “Our correspondence there has gone silent for quite some time. I know where Glerk was last seen two weeks ago, but nothing since then. He’s most definitely moved.”

“So where was he last seen?”

“Melbourne, Australia.”

The name is vaguely familiar, but Pansy can’t recall anything about it. Pansy would have no idea where she’s be going if it weren’t for Hermione. Speaking of which… “Hold on a second,” she says. “Are you really willing to go all the way with me to Australia? Research is one thing, but travelling to the other side of the world? That’s a bit much, isn’t it?”

“Didn’t think you would complain about it.” Hermione looks slightly put off.

“I’m not. I just don’t understand.”

Hermione sighs. “I have my own personal reasons for going. Australia really isn’t a problem for me.”

Hermione averts her gaze, staring at the pot on the table. Pansy itches to ask more, but she has the feeling it wouldn’t do well for her. Instead, she stands up, “Let’s go then.”

Surprisingly to Pansy, Hermione nods her ascent immediately, and stands beside her. “Okay, but we need to tell the ministry. We can’t just leave for no reason at all.”

Thinking of Blaise, Pansy realises she’s right. She’s going to need a very good and believable excuse for taking time off work. Blaise is already suspicious enough with her simply taking off one day. He’ll be basically paranoid if she asks for a week or two.

“I’ll talk to Blaise. You talk to the team you have; I hope they can survive without you.”

“They will.” Then Hermione throws her a pointed glance. “Pansy, I want you to know this won’t be easy. Australia is very different to England-The magic is not the same. It’s more ancient, and less cultivated than how you and I know it. It’s unstable and due to it’s propensity to go haywire, we won’t be able to use much magic. If not any at all.”

Pansy faltered. “No magic at all? That’s not possible. How are we supposed to find the rebel group?”

“We can use very low magical capacity spells. Accio, Wingardium Leviosa, maybe a few tracking spells, anything more complex would cause too much attention.” She tucked her hair behind her ear. “Australian witches and wizards usually go to international wizarding schools to further develop their magic. It’s almost impossible to do it there. There’s a reason a brought my paren-” she cuts herself off. “Never mind.”

Pansy is curious but doesn’t question it further. “How are the goblins managing without magic?”

“I can only assume that because their magic works at a different level than us, they may be able to control it more and withstand the instability.”

“When you say the magic goes hay wire what exactly do you mean?”

“It depends. Sometimes it’s just a nuisance; Ineffective but flashy enough for muggles to notice. Most of the time it just backfires. Much like with Seamus.” Yes, Pansy remembered Finnigan. He almost perpetually had burnt hair. “But other times, in the cases of very intricate spells, it can be fatal. It explodes and there’s no way to stop it.”

Pansy gulps. She has never been without magic. She also can’t imagine how difficult it’ll be to find Glerk, the goblin leader without it but it seems she has no choice. She’d rather not be blown up.

“When do we go?” she asks.

“Tomorrow morning.”

*

Before Pansy packs and goes to bed for the night, she owls Blaise a letter. The guilt in her gut is too profound to face him in person, even though she wants to. She explains how she is trying to find herself, a stupid reason, sure, but cheesy enough for him to believe it, and even better, cheesy enough for him to stay away. At least for the moment. If he comes looking, it’ll be too late. He won’t know to find her in Australia, let alone how to locate her.

*

They leave London in the early morning and arrive at the Australian Bureau for International Witches and Wizards midday. It was the result of copious amounts of paperwork from the Australian government, in which they had to prove their citizenship and ensure they were not bringing in harmful plants and animals into the Australian country. If that weren’t enough,h they were also sprayed with a disgusting revealing potion, which Pansy was sure they only did for laughs it smelt so bad.

Overall, the process went smoothly. Hermione seemed very efficient in getting them through customs. Like she had done it before. It was quite impressive. Before she knew it, they were done.

Leaving the bureau Pansy only has time to become overwhelmed by the sheer size of the car park and the hundreds of cars packed within it before Hermione introduces her to something horrible. Something so horrible Pansy almost cannot bear it. A car. A car in which Pansy is expected to go in and _stay_ in while its moving. 

“No way.”

“Pansy- I already told you this would be difficu-”

“No _way_.”

Hermione is staring at her with an exasperated look on her face, but nonetheless remains firm in her insistence that this was the way they are travelling.

More specifically, she wants Pansy to get into a car. A fucking car. Pansy resolutely will not do it.

The thing is a death-trap. Even when she was living with muggles, she refused to get in them. She used to use the excuse that she was terribly carsick, which, she supposes now, is true. The one time she did get in one, she lasted two minutes before vomiting all over the poor taxi driver. She was too sick to apologise, she just flung money at him and jumped out while he still had it in park. She still feels guilty about it now.

But moreso, she shudders thinking of the traffic, the proximity of the other cars, the seemingly near-death experiences. They’re all too fast, too dangerous, too terrifying. It makes her stomach churn just thinking about it.

Hermione, however, is having none of it. She tuts her tongue then says, “Pansy, you’re being ridiculous. It’s just a car. Get in.”

“It’s _not_ just a car.”

“Look. I would usually set up charms to ensure our safety, but I can’t. We can’t apparate either. Unless you want us to blow up or fail getting that curse removed, you’re just going to have to trust I’m a good driver.” Her eyes soften slightly then. “I promise you; we won’t crash.”

Pansy wants to believe her, but her racing heart rate tells her otherwise. “I’m sure that’s what everyone says!” Looking at the annoyed frown upon Hermione’s face, she knows she’s being ridiculous. But she already feels a horribly sickening lurch in her gut outside the car, she can’t imagine how it would feel actually being _in_ it.

As Hermione continues to stare at her, Pansy is hit with the devastating truth. She’s going to have to do it. She hates cars with a passion, but this is the only way. While she’d really prefer it not to be in a car, if she’s going to die in eleven days anyway, at least it’ll be quick like this.

“Pansy-” Hermione starts again, about to launch another attempt in convincing her.

But she’s has already made up her mind. “Just give me a second. Please.”

Closing her eyes, she takes a couple of deep breaths, trying to focus on anything but the metal death machine in front of her.

When she opens them again, Hermione is looking at her with something akin to pity, which Pansy snorts at lightly.

“I’m getting in. If I start screaming, ignore me.” Feeling slightly less hysterical, she hops into the car before she can hype herself out of it.

“So dramatic, Parkinson,” Hermione says, but jumps into the driver’s seat beside her and closing the door.

Pansy buckles her seatbelt and looks at her directly in the eyes. “I mean it.”

*

Hermione has to keep her word as Pansy ends up shrieking an awful lot. Which, she might add, is only because Hermione lied. Because she is _not_ a good driver. She’s a bloody awful one, in fact, turning sharply and breaking just a bit too late for comfort making Pansy think they’ll hit the back of another car. Her throat feels raw from screaming and her fingers are sore from clinging so hard to her seat. Begging for Hermione to stop has been a useless endeavour so far but it doesn’t stop her from doing it.

Behind her terror, Pansy is very grateful for Hermione’s patience. The bushy-haired girl barely liked her in the first place, she probably found it difficult to even stand her. Despite that, she’s pushed through Pansy’s terrified cries and remained by her side. Pansy still doesn’t understand why she’s gone all this way to help her, but she’s not going to risk questioning it now and have her leave.

They are heading towards the last place Glerk was spotted, to the north of the Australian state, New South Wales. At an art museum. They can’t travel by floo or apparition to driving is their only option, unfortunately. It’ll take hours to get there driving.

Pansy would really like to reiterate something. She doesn’t like cars. However, by about hour three of clinging for her life, it gets a bit old. Her heart stops beating as fast, she’s not sweating, and she can keep even breaths. She finds she’s not as scared anymore. Hermione is still a horrid driver, and sometimes Pansy feels like she’s about to swerve off the road but she hasn’t killed them yet. She might even dare to say the car isn’t that bad.

In her panicked state she hadn’t even take the time to look out the window, but now that she no longer fears an imminent threat to her life, she feels safe in doing so.

With her limited knowledge of Australia, she presumed it would be a bare, dry landscape, composed of red dust spreading across the land into a warm orange horizon. But that’s not the case at all.

It’s _green_. Trees and plants cover every space it can. Albeit, there are still a lot of cars and it is chocked full of grey buildings and infrastructure alike (much like England) but there is a notable difference. There seems to be a lot of care in preserving nature, so much so that it looks overgrown in some areas. However, the sky looks miserable, a pale grey and a pitter patter of rain that could challenge even the likes of England.

By the time Pansy has gotten completely used to the car, boredom instead replacing the terror, she asks the question that’s been popping into her mind.

“Hermione, how much longer?”

Hermione gives her a quick glance, before returning her eyes back to the road. “You finally calm down, and that’s the first thing you ask?”

It may be a bit childish, but Pansy’s barely ever sits this still for quite so many hours on end except when she’s sleeping. She ignores the implication. “Well?”

“A few more hours, at most. We’ll get there just before sundown.”

“About 5:30 then,” she says, looking gloomily at the time.

“If we’re lucky.”

Time passes leaving another couple of hours behind, signalling their upcoming arrival. The sun is setting into blooming pinks and oranges over the green expanse. Pansy admires it through the window and she increasingly wonders why she was so afraid of cars in the first place. She might even describe it as fun. Seeing buildings and fields of green and farmland flashing past is almost interesting. And although Hermione still turns a bit too sharply for her taste, she obviously has practice in doing so. She feels a bit silly for being so panicked.

She’s just about to say so to Hermione when she hears a “Bloody hell!” and then they’re swerving off the road. Time seems to go slower, giving Pansy plenty of room to look up and see a massive kangaroo ahead of them, hopping along on the road without a care, obviously the very thing Hermione wanted to avoid. It also allows Pansy to blame herself for trusting cars for even a second. Then her and Hermione’s screams drown out any further thought and they’re tumbling off the road. 

Luckily for them, Hermione stops screaming long enough to casts a softening charm right before the car hits the tree ahead of them, in which, if they were not witches, were doomed to crash into. Instead, the car receives a light hit, causing Pansy and Hermione to jostle in their seats, their seat-belts saving them from flying through the window. Then everything goes still, and their harsh breathing is the only sound audible.

“Holy mother of Merlin,” Pansy breathes out when she regains enough brain function to speak.

“I… certainly didn’t expect that, Hermione says. Pansy is glad to see Hermione looks as flustered as she is. Her pupils are blown wide.

They almost just had a massive car crash, but they survived. How did this happen on the first day here? What else does Australia have in store? Evil Koalas?

Then another thought surges into Pansy’s mind. “We almost just died, Hermione. I bet you didn’t even know if that spell would work. You said that magic here is unstable, it could’ve blown us up.”

“No… I did not know it would work for sure. Though I was pretty sure a softening charm would be small enough to suffice.”

“If it didn't work, at best we would be crushed against that tree and at worst we’d be blown to bits!” Hermione looks guilty, but not as guilty as Pansy would like. “Oh my god, this is what I get for willingly hopping into a car. Never again, _never again_.”

“How do you know that phrase, Pansy?”

“What do you mean?”

“’Oh my god’. That’s a muggle phrase.”

Pansy pauses for a moment. She hadn’t expected that question. “When I lived with muggles for a year, is probably how.”

Hermione looks like she would really like to ask more but Pansy doesn’t give her the chance.

She unbuckles the seat belt and spins around in her seat to see the kangaroo still on the road, standing there looking enormous as if it hadn’t just caused them to almost die. “What the fuck was that doing there. The little shit.”

“It’s not it’s fault muggles built roads in it’s natural habitat.”

Pansy rolls her eyes. “Well, no, but at least have the courtesy not to mock us. Mother of Merlin. Look it’s just staring at us!”

“We can’t do anything about it now. We better get out. We didn’t crash but who knows what damage happened.”

They leave the car, confirming that they are completely unharmed, not a single scratch besides a slight bruising from the force of the seatbelt keeping them strapped in.

They find the car is lodged in a small ditch. A slight hill separating the road and the tree which the car is still lightly pressed against. The kangaroo seems to have disappeared. The bastard.

“How on earth are we going to get that back up without magic?”

“We have to call RACV.”

“And what is that exactly?”

“A muggle car insurance company, they’ll send a tow truck to pull it up.”

“Well you certainly seem to know everything. How on earth do you know that? Have you been here before?”

She sniffs. “Not here I haven't, all I did was research… I thought something like this might happen.”

The words cause a flare of annoyance within Pansy. “You thought something like this might happen, and you didn't care to mention it to me?” She points at the car. “You still made me get in that thing knowing that?”

Hermione says nothing, but doesn’t back down. She doesn’t avert her eyes, continuing to stare directly at Pansy with those big brown eyes.

Despite her anger, Pansy can’t help but be impressed. “You're more Slytherin than you think, Granger.”

Pansy expects her to get angry, for her to outright refuse the mere insinuation that a perfect little Gryffindor such as her would _ever_ be like a sneaky evil _Slytherin_. But she doesn’t. What she says is much more surprising.

“There’s nothing wrong with that,” she says, shrugging.

Pansy gapes slightly but Hermione ignores her, continuing to speak. “Besides, there was no way I could tell you then, so don’t get mad. You never would’ve gotten in. And it’s not like I knew for sure there would be a kangaroo. Australia has a lot of wildlife, but it wasn’t a certainty.” She pauses to look at her. “I do apologise though. Now wait while I call them.” She slips her mobile from her pocket, something which Pansy is proud to say she is familiar with, before turning around and blabbering on about insurance.

Now that Pansy is out of the car, and her heart is no longer taking off like an airplane from legitimately almost dying, she realises how cold it is. It’s dark now, and goosebumps spread across her skin at the chilly air, but something makes up for it-the stars are astonishes bright. Much brighter than the ones in Britain.

To her further amazement, tilting her head up high, she notices the constellations are different too. Which, she supposes, should’ve been obvious to her from the start. She doesn’t have much of an interest in stars, but the compulsory astronomy classes in Hogwarts allow her to recognise that these are ones they would have no chance of seeing without travelling across the hemisphere. These are the types she knew of only in textbooks. Not now though. It is quite amazing to see.

Her neck is straining from the looking up for so long when a voice interrupts her. “They’ll be here within an hour.” It’s Hermione.

“An hour?” The wind racks a shudder out of her, reminding her of the cold temperatures. Jeez they’ll be frozen to the bone by then.

Hermione seems to notice Pansy’s discomfort, her eyes lingering on the way Pansy’s wrapped her arms around herself.

She flickers her gaze back. “Good news is that the success of the softening charm makes me certain we can use warming charms. So…” she slides her wand out from her sleeve pocket and flicks it at Pansy, muttering _recalfacio._

Pansy’s hit with a powerful wave of heat, feeling like she’s the target of those massive hairdryers that muggles use. The initial hit of hot air leaves quickly, however, but she’s still left with a feeling of warm cosiness.

“That should feel better.” Hermione nods, satisfied with her work.

It does, it really does, Pansy thinks. “Thank you, Hermione.”

“No problem,” she responds, quirking her lips. Then she’s waving the incantation at herself and they’re both left standing outside the car, crickets chirping in the distance. Pansy’s not sure what they should do now. Without the warming charm, an hour would’ve made a torturous wait.

Hermione breaks her pondering. “We should go to the side of the road so they see where we are. I gave them our approximate location but I’m not familiar with the area so I couldn’t tell them exactly. They’ll be looking out for us.”

“That’s fine.”

They sit themselves down on the road and Pansy’s lightly perturbed by the fact she’ll have to dirty her pants, but a bit too sick and tired of everything to refuse.

She can’t help but glance back down at the car, terrifying flashbacks replaying in her head, but she’s distracted when another thought emerges. “Do you think they’ll be suspicious the car didn't sustain any damage? The muggles, that is.”

Hermione flicks a quick glance down at the car, before returning it to the road ahead of them. “Maybe so. But they won’t blame it on magic. They’ll think we’re just really lucky.”

“I suppose so.”

Silence consumes them as they sit, and Pansy finds herself entranced again by the night sky. The litter of white lights across the otherwise pure black expanse is stunning, and Pansy wishes she could see it in England.

“I never knew how bright they could be.” She utters before she can stop herself.

Hermione looks up from her stare on the ground, then to Pansy, and then to the sky. “The stars? You’re right. They are beautiful.”

Silence blankets them again as they stare, almost mystified, at the bright sky. The longer they stare, the longer Pansy is filled with a sense of nostalgia and something sentimental, and suddenly she wants to learn more about Hermione. Pansy breaks her gaze at the sky to look at the girl. She’s beautiful under the moonlight. It casts shadows down her face, illuminating her features and the curve of her eyelashes. Her skin is glowing, and Pansy wants to touch. But she doesn’t. Instead, she says, “I’ve never been out of Europe before now, have you?”

“Yes, I’ve been here. To Australia.” Hermione’s stopped looking at the sky, focused now on Pansy. Maybe its the stargazing, because it certainly isn't the riveting conversation topic (’never been out of Europe before, have you?’ Pansy, really?) but Pansy is struck by the dark brown of her eyes. It’s not a striking colour, not like a vibrant blue or green. But it’s nonetheless beautiful, and Pansy feels pinned down under her stare. Bare and exposed.

“For vacation?” she asks.

“No. Nothing like that.” The lines of Hermione’s mouth are stretched taut now.

Curiosity fills her to the brim, and Pansy can’t help but ask. “What for then?”

Hermione stays silent for a long while. Pansy thinks she’s dropped the matter completely and is berating herself for asking too many questions when she hears her voice again.

“It was to hide them. My parents. During the war.” She still looks down as she says it and Pansy misses the brown of her eyes.

Pansy realises that’s what she was going to mention before they left. It would’ve been so hard to leave them, never knowing if you’d return.

“They’re lucky to have a daughter like you. One that wanted to keep them safe so badly.”

“Maybe so. I don’t know why I’m telling you this.”

Pansy doesn’t get to respond because headlights appear on the road, straining her eyes, and a bright ghastly yellow truck stops in front of them.

A man hops out, slamming the door rather loudly behind him. “Hey gals, one of you Hermione?”

“Yes. That’s me”

“We’ll get you all sorted. Don’t you worry.” He looks down at the car. “That your car then? Wow, she’s in a bit of a mess, isn’t she? A kangaroo was it?”

Pansy shudders at the thought of the evil creature. “Unfortunately, yes.”

“Well, I can tell from your accent you’re not from ‘round here. So you’ll have to be a lot more careful next time, okay? Roos come from everywhere, you can’t let your guard down for a second.”

Roos? Does he mean Kangaroos?

The muggle is lanky and covered in freckles, visible even in the darkness. Pansy worries for his sun-kissed skin, but he seems too carefree to pay mind to that sort of thing. He hums as he springs down to the ditch where the car remains and before long, he has a hook attached to the car’s axle and he’s backed his truck to pull it out.

He talks all the way, asking them about where they’re headed, how they like Australia, where they’ve been. They politely answer all his questions, carefully omitting anything of actual truth. He seems happy enough with their replies, and then he’s giving their car a quick once over and getting back into his truck to leave.

“That’s it, ladies, stay safe and have a good one.” He salutes, before driving off with a wicked smile.

Fatigue hits Pansy as he goes. Travelling is a tiring thing, and she doesn’t envy muggles who have to travel by plane.

“The art museum will have closed by now.” Pansy says.

“That’s true. we should find a place to stay.”

“Definitely. My back would kill if we sleep in the car.”

Then they’re back on the road to find a motel.

Pansy really doesn’t want to get in the car again, but in her sleep dazed state she gets in with only a bit of complaining.

With everything that happened, coming to Australia, getting in a car and hitting a kangaroo, Pansy hasn’t had much time to even think about the fact that if they fail, she’ll die. She has eleven days left now. Eleven days. It’s almost a distant thought, much like the stars in the dark sky. If she didn’t have that mark on her chest and a dreading ache in her heart, she might’ve forgotten entirely. She looks at the girl beside her who for some unknown reason is still helping her, and she decides she doesn’t want to die quite yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed this chapter! Feel free to leave any constructive criticism/feedback :)


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